


Radio Nowhere

by Poe



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (both Steve and Bucky), Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Artist Steve Rogers, Brief appearance by Sam, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Depression, Dysphoria, Embedded Images, Fandom, Impulsive Decisions, M/M, Meet cute turned meet ugly, Mental Illness, Mentions of Natasha - Freeform, NASBB 2020, Nonbinary Bucky Barnes, Nonbinary Creators Club 2020, Not Another Stucky Big Bang, Original Characters in social media posts, Past Suicide Attempts, Podcast, Podcaster Bucky Barnes, Podfic Available, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Smoking, Social Media, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Trans Steve Rogers, Tumblr, Twitter, they/them pronouns used throughout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:33:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27007417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poe/pseuds/Poe
Summary: "The Wasteland was a place where your name didn’t matter, where your gender didn’t matter, where who you fell in love with didn’t matter. All that mattered was survival, was the adventure, was the long nights with nothing but the chirping of crickets and the alien howls of the horrors that lurked just beyond the horizon to sing you to sleep. The Wasteland was a beacon to other outsiders, somewhere, that despite the desert demons, it was safe to be yourself."*(Or: Bucky Barnes runs a podcast, but doesn't want to be seen. Steve Rogers can't stop looking.)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 106
Kudos: 180
Collections: Not Another Stucky Big Bang 2020





	Radio Nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings for: Bucky experiences dysphoria, though it is not described in detail. Steve's past suicide attempt is mentioned and the immediate aftermath is vaguely described. Bucky smokes. In one tumblr post a user creates a list of everything they think they know about Bucky, and whilst Bucky doesn't see this onscreen, it could be distressing.
> 
> Not a content warning but: Bucky uses they/them pronouns throughout the fic. I don't know what gender they were assigned at birth, and this is not revealed in the fic, because it's none of our business.
> 
> This has been such an exciting project to work on, I hope you enjoy the fic, the art and the podfic!

_“And as always, remember the only thing you can trust is your shadow. And even that’s finicky. This has been Wastelands Radio, and I’m your host, Nowhere, signing off.”_

Steve leaned back against his pillow, laptop resting on his stomach, warming him as it chugged away against its ancient fans. The podcast came to a close with a soft wash of distorted violins, and he sighed, content.

He’d been listening to Wastelands Radio for two years now, finding it via a tumblr post at 4am after a late night art session, and since then it had become something akin to a second home, a strange wilderness he could conjure in his mind with a host who seemed impossible to pin down, their character, Nowhere, an elusive and mysterious storyteller, with no gender, no age, nothing but the words spilling from their lips and the story they were telling.

There was nothing out there like it, a post-apocalyptic wonderland of monsters and magic and friends and enemies (and sometimes, who could tell the two apart?) and love and betrayal and it was all so beautifully crafted and immersive Steve just wanted to sink into it, to live in the Wasteland with Nowhere, and to marvel at the world they had built.

Easier said than done – the host of the podcast was notoriously reclusive, there was no name to be found, despite the deep dive tumblr posts, nobody had managed to nail down anything except for a slight Brooklyn tinge to some of the vowels, and even that was debatable.

There was a Twitter account, and Steve had signed up just to follow it, and it was just as cryptic as the podcast itself – micro-poetry, miniature stories about the Wasteland, retweeted fanart, distorted audio posts that the fandom jumped upon to decipher, and when they _were_ deciphered, the mystery deepened rather than resolved itself.

Steve was a little bit in love. With the idea of it all, with the host, with the sheer fucking artistry of it.

He loaded up Twitter, wincing as his laptop screeched to a halt briefly before responding. He needed a new one, desperately, but money was tight, had always been tight, and he knew to live within his means, and if that meant his laptop radiating heat like a dying sun, or freezing up when he worked on commissions, he could live with that.

Though if he couldn’t listen to Wastelands Radio anymore, he might reconsider.

Thankfully, the podcast ran smoothly, so far, and each week he settled in and immersed himself in the world of it, trying to picture who was on the other end of the microphone, the soft, yet deep, steady voice that could fill so suddenly with emotion or tension, then ease it all away again.

An artist himself, Steve was no stranger to the idea of creating, but by comparison his ideas felt shallow, their lack of depth frustrating and demoralising. His friends would shake their heads, tell him to get out of his own head and look with his eyes and not with his heart, but it was never that easy. He’d been a perfectionist from an early age, and wasn’t that just the worst thing to be?

Twitter crunched open, and @wastelandsradio had posted something new, a snippet, an idea, something so small that already caused a flurry to blossom in Steve’s mind.

**@wastelandsradio: I saw a deer last night, as I was driving down some abandoned highway. But when I looked again, something shifted, and I realised they were getting smarter. I pushed harder on the gas pedal.**

The image was as clear in Steve’s mind as anything he’d ever painted, and he needed to see it, needed to make it, make it real. He’d filled entire sketchbooks with, well, fanart, concept art, he didn’t know what to call it really, but it was all based on Wastelands Radio. He reached to the shelves beside his bed and pulled out his ancient Wacom tablet, sliding the stylus pen from its pocket.

He tapped open FireAlpaca, the only painting program he could get to run on his laptop, and began to sketch, the deer that wasn’t a deer, and the car with a driver with no face, and the desert road stretching ever onwards.

*

Bucky sighed as they flubbed another line, losing their place in the script as they did so. Over one hundred episodes in, and the act of talking into the microphone still set their teeth on edge as much as it had done the first time, possibly more so now, because people were out there, listening, responding, reaching out.

Trying to find Bucky.

And that was terrifying.

They appreciated their fans, appreciated the warmth of the community Wastelands Radio had cultivated, but some people pushed a little too hard, analysing stuff Bucky didn’t want analysed, looking for the anonymous narrator and trying, so desperately, to assign attributes, to push Bucky into corners they didn’t want to be pushed into.

They ran a hand through their hair, fingers getting caught in the braids Natasha had delicately plaited the day before, and sighed. The latest Twitter post had garnered several thousand likes and retweets already, and now they were working on the next episode, the script checked over by Natasha for anything that might reveal Bucky’s identity.

Wastelands Radio had been a germ of an idea in the back of Bucky’s mind long before they’d brought it to life and to the internet. Bucky had always been a writer, a daydreamer, good enough to pass the other subjects, but really excelling in English and taking creative writing classes wherever they could. There was something about telling a story anonymously, and using the internet to do so, for free and to a wider audience than Bucky had ever dreamt of, that was exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure.

The internet had given Bucky so much, a name to their identity, communities where they had felt safe to talk about who they were, in vague terms and under numerous disposable usernames, but it also felt unsafe now, in a way that maybe ten years ago it hadn’t.

The political climate had shifted, and with it came the anger, the hatred, the invasion of the communities and safe spaces they had found, friends they cared about had been doxxed, their lives torn apart, people they’d spoken to for years had disappeared overnight.

The Wasteland was a place where your name didn’t matter, where your gender didn’t matter, where who you fell in love with didn’t matter. All that mattered was survival, was the adventure, was the long nights with nothing but the chirping of crickets and the alien howls of the horrors that lurked just beyond the horizon to sing you to sleep. The Wasteland was a beacon to other outsiders, somewhere, that despite the desert demons, it was safe to be yourself.

And people had responded to that, had created personas based on the Wasteland, had drawn fanart and written fanfic and had tried desperately to contact Bucky. But Bucky always tried because the world outside of the Wasteland was crueller, more animal than the monsters they could dream up.

Bucky allowed themself to use Twitter as a necessary evil, a way to promote the latest episode and to add to the story in new and experimental ways. Bucky loved fucking with audio posts, making them just decipherable enough to be unravelled, but difficult enough to create a challenge. The micro-fiction and poetry came at the oddest times of the night, when the dark thoughts started to sneak their tendrils around Bucky’s brain and squeeze tight. Bucky’s phone was on charge constantly, the notes app groaning at the seams, and Twitter always a tap away, a new idea, a new layer to the story just waiting to be added.

Natasha was the only one who knew. Not that Bucky had a wide circle of friends to tell, but still. Natasha helped keep Bucky safe, in so many ways, more ways than Bucky thought she knew. Natasha protected Bucky not just from the people online, but also from themself. Phone calls at three in the morning when everything seemed too hard, too much, too sharp and too heavy, when Bucky bit back sobs and clawed at their thighs and tried so, so hard not to shake apart. Natasha was always calm, always patient, and always listened as though she had all the time in the world.

There was no way Bucky could ever repay her. She had saved Bucky’s life so many times, more than once in a very literal sense.

So if the monsters in the Wasteland were metaphors, well, wasn’t that the point of creating something? And if other people saw those same monsters, then maybe, maybe Bucky wasn’t as alone as they felt.

Though as the monsters followed, only ever one footstep behind, breathing heavy on the back of Bucky’s neck, Bucky wished that the monsters were utterly unrelatable. Because to live like this, every single day, it felt like being torn apart by some distant black hole. And Bucky didn’t want anybody else to feel like that. Not ever.

*

_“I’m running out of gas and I’m running out of air, and I’m not sure which one feels more urgent. The engine burns the gas and keeps me moving, and my lungs burn with the lack of oxygen. I can’t breathe. The engine can’t breathe. Outside the window, I can see the whites of their eyes, moving ever closer. If I keep the doors shut and wait ‘til morning, there’s a chance they’ll leave me alone. But it’s a temporary reprieve, you see? You know, you’ve been there. When the moon’s the only thing between you and oblivion. And the Wasteland, it treats us all real equal. We all die out here, in the end._

_I don’t think that’s what counts though. I think it’s the running. I think it’s the days when the sun burns bright and you’ve got a full belly and a full tank of gas and a clear road ahead of you. We keep running, babies, and the road’ll treat us right. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt out here, it’s that you’ll never run out of road. And as long as the road stretches onwards, well, I guess we stretch onwards too, and maybe in the end, that’s all we can ask for.”_

*

“I’m just saying, you talk like you know this person. Like you’re obsessed with them. It’s not healthy,” Sam said, pointing a stubby yellow pencil at Steve’s head. “You’ve got to take a step back, dude.”

“It’s not like that. I’m not obsessed with anyone. I just – the way they talk, the things they say, nobody else uses words like that. Nobody else seems to understand it all the way they do. I’m just curious, you know? I’m allowed to be curious,” Steve defended himself, glaring at the sketch in front of him. It was a commission piece for a friend of a friend and it was _fine_ , but it wasn’t beautiful. “When you’re in the Wasteland, it’s like a different world.”

“It’s fictional, Steve, you know that, right?” Sam pointed out, frowning now.

“I know, I’m not delusional. But there’s truth to it too. You get that, right? All the best works of art have truth to them. That’s where the word empathy comes from, you know? They made it up to describe the feeling you get looking at art. Well, with Wastelands Radio, I feel everything. It hurts, Sam, sometimes, like right in my chest, and I wish I knew the narrator because you can’t fake that hurt, I want to know they’re okay. I worry that one day I’ll check for an update and there won’t be one. And that scares me.”

“You’re still taking your meds?” Sam asked, voice full of concern. Steve rolled his eyes. He knew how bad it had gotten after his mom had died, and he loved Sam for being there through it all. And he knew how scared Sam was that he’d trip and fall down that dark hole again. But it wasn’t like that, it wasn’t.

“It’s so full of hope, Sam, I promise you. I’m not going to get bad again. It helps. Honestly. It doesn’t trigger me.”

Sam shook his head, looking at Steve intently.

“I just don’t want you bleeding out because you’re too concerned about some internet stranger to look after yourself. You’re my best friend, Steve. I’m allowed to care about you.”

Steve smiled, despite himself. Before everything, he would have bristled at someone caring about him so intensely, so multitudinously, but now it just made him feel safe. Less alone. The same way Wastelands Radio made him feel, but for very different reasons.

“I won’t bleed out,” he said, and subconsciously scratched at the fabric covering his left wrist, hiding the long pale scar that refused to flatten. “I’ll tell you if things get bad.”

“You better,” Sam said, eyes tracking the movement of Steve’s hand. “I – just. I can’t see you in a hospital bed again.”

Steve felt rotten to his core. Sam had been the one who’d – found him, phone still clutched in his hand and bathroom tiles stained an awful red. There was no way Steve could ever make up for that, and whilst Sam had never intentionally tried to shame him for it, the shame washed over him all the same. It had been stupid, the work of an instant, and he’d regretted it immediately.

But it was etched into him now, a mistake he couldn’t take back. And sometimes when Sam looked at him, he could see it in Sam’s eyes, and he wondered about the damage he’d done, not to himself, but to Sam, that night, just because he’d been fucked up and alone and scared.

And that’s why he knew he could never let it get that bad again. Because he couldn’t do that to Sam. _Wouldn’t_ do that to Sam. Not again.

“It’s just a podcast,” he said, even though it wasn’t, not really. “I’ll stop talking about it so much, I know it gets annoying.”

Sam looked at him a little longer, indecipherable, before going back to his reading. Steve looked around the near empty library, a wasteland in its own right, and wondered if the narrator had ever made the same promise Steve had made to himself. About not letting others be hurt by the shrapnel of his own suffering.

Maybe that’s why Wastelands Radio existed. Maybe it was catharsis. Beautiful and dark and haunting and alive and brimming with hurt and hope and its narrator always just outrunning the demons that chased them.

 _Keep running_ , Steve thought, _please, just keep running_.

He wiped at his eyes, his hand coming away damp, and stared down at his drawing again. It wasn’t any more beautiful. It was just lines on a page.

And that hurt.

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind and just draw. Maybe it didn’t have to be beautiful.

The only times he found beauty was when he was drawing the Wasteland and its monsters.

And not even Sam had seen those. It felt too personal, like opening a door he couldn’t close again.

He sighed to himself, and rested his head on his arms, slumping down in his chair, feeling Sam’s eyes on him the whole time.

*

**@wastelandsradio: The Wasteland has sharp teeth. But mine are sharper. Sometimes I bite through my bottom lip. I stopped looking in the mirror. What am I afraid of seeing?**

*

Bucky pulled on their biggest hoodie, mustard yellow and big enough to drape over them entirely, almost down to their knees, hiding everything. Their jeans were also suitably baggy, clinging to nothing in particular and making Bucky feel like they were wading through fabric as they walked. They pulled their hair into a large, messy bun, falling loose around their face, brushing against the dusting of stubble on their jaw.

The only mirror in the apartment was smashed, cracked right through the centre and spiralled outwards, distorting, showing only segments of Bucky’s face, never the whole.

And that suited Bucky just fine.

Their body felt like a glitch, some days. This was one of those days.

Normally it’d be a duvet day, a day for writing and maybe messing around with audio samples. A day for eating ice cream until their stomach hurt. But there was no ice cream left, no anything left. Much like in the Wasteland, supplies had run low, and Bucky wasn’t in the business of extinction. (Sort of. Sometimes. And they shouldn’t have to qualify that to themselves, and yet.)

So Bucky was going to go out, to the local bodega with the fluffy white cat that rubbed against their leg and left white strands behind that required a lint roller to fully remove, though Bucky rarely did, instead wearing that comfortable contact until the machine washed it away. It was a couple of blocks, and it was raining, so Bucky could put their hoodie up and nobody would look at them twice (though in New York, nobody was a novelty, the anonymity of the city cloaked them all equally – just like the Wasteland).

There was something calming and primal about turning their face up to the rain, feeling it on their closed eyelids and trailing down their cheeks, the beat of it against the top of their head through their hoodie. There was no rain in the Wasteland, the Wasteland was dry, arid, and yet somehow still full of greenery, but the kind of greenery that looked a little too wrong, a little too out of place.

A glitch, just like Bucky.

Bucky moved like a shadow through the streets, careful not to brush against anyone, radiating a personal space through years of experience. People stepped aside without realising they were doing it, and Bucky revelled in existing alone in a city of millions, Converse beating against the sidewalk, the canvas of the shoes soaking through as Bucky splashed through puddles.

Reaching the bodega was a relief. Pulling the door to, and hearing the bell jingle as they did so, and then seeing the cat fluff up before mirruping and jogging up to them, that felt nice.

They did their shopping quickly, grabbing not only what they needed now, but what they’d need for the foreseeable future, not wanting to leave the house again anytime soon.

Bucky paid and bundled the bags carefully in their arms, a little precarious. The fluffy white cat did its level best to trip them, but Bucky stepped around it with practised ease.

The heavens were still open when Bucky stepped outside, soaking to the bone quickly, so Bucky hustled onwards, back to the safety of their apartment, their bubble of personal space keeping people away, but not the wet.

Back in the lobby of the apartment building, Bucky took a moment to breathe, leaning against the panelled wood wall (horrifically out of date, but it somehow fit the building). They watched as a short blond guy skidded in looking like a drowned rat, clutching what looked like a bedraggled and sodden sketchbook to his chest. Unlike everyone else, he spared a glance at Bucky, and Bucky caught a glimpse of wide blue eyes, a crooked nose, and a plush mouth that seemed a little too tight, a cheek muscle ticking with tension. Time seemed to slow, just for a couple of seconds, as the guy watched Bucky watching him, and then, all at once, the guy pitched forward, tilting over as he tripped on one of his shoelaces. He went down in a heap, and without thinking, Bucky moved, dropping their precious shopping as they did so, to help.

*

One minute, Steve was unabashedly staring at the beautiful person leaning against the lobby wall, the next he was flat on his face, and dammit if that wasn’t so fucking typical. The sudden jolt of going from upright to facedown startled him, and so he lay sprawled on the ground, trying to catch his bearings.

“Are you okay?” A voice said, and for a moment Steve thought he’d hit his head harder than he thought, because he _knew_ that voice. He couldn’t place it, but something inside him sparked awake at the sound of it. He turned his head. The person he’d been staring at had come over, and was offering a hand.

“Your shopping,” Steve said, staring at the disarray of bags and produce. The person glanced over their shoulder, as if noticing for the first time.

“Oh yeah,” they said. “It’s okay.”

Then.

“Are you okay?” They asked again.

Steve checked in with himself. His chin kinda hurt, but other than that the only thing damaged was his pride. He started to pull himself into a sitting position. The person lowered their hand, and Steve regretted not taking it.

“I’m okay,” he said, flustered. He wasn’t good with strangers, especially not attractive ones. Especially especially not attractive ones who lived in his apartment building. “Do you live here?”

“Yeah,” the person said softly, biting on their bottom lip, looking just as anxious as Steve felt. They stood, and started gathering up their shopping, not really seeming like they were paying attention to what they were grabbing, just more like shoving things into bags.

“I can help,” Steve offered.

“It’s okay.”

Steve rocked back on his heels, and stretched out his spine before standing. He’d be sore tomorrow, no doubt.

“Thanks for helping,” Steve said, as the person started to glance around a little wildly, shifting awkwardly on the spot, as though itching to leave.

“I didn’t do anything,” they said.

“More than most.”

The person shrugged, and their hoodie fell down a little, revealing thick brunette hair, slightly tangled and messy, but utterly gorgeous nonetheless.

Steve felt himself blushing. He stood, a little too quickly, and took a couple of breaths to steady himself.

“I should go,” the person said, shifting the shopping in their arms.

“Yeah,” Steve said, wanting to say a million more things, but unable to get his brain back on track.

“You sure you’re okay?” They said, walking backwards, heading for the stairs.

Steve nodded.

“Right. Okay. Bye, I guess,” they said.

Steve raised a hand to wave, then felt awkward and dropped it to his side.

They turned away and soon had turned the corner of the stairs, headed upwards, away.

Steve stood, dripping wet and a little lost, hands by his sides, feeling like he’d forgotten something important.

He shook himself, waited thirty seconds, counting carefully in his head, before making his own way up the stairs.

It was only when he locked his apartment door behind him that he realised he didn’t have his sketchbook.

*

_“They tell you never to look someone in the eyes because that’s how they steal your soul out here. But I gotta tell you, that’s how love works. It ain’t pretty, and it ain’t always sweet, but it’s real, possibly the last real thing we’ve got. And if it keeps the monsters away, then I’ll take it, any day, any way I can find it._

_I drove for a long time before I found him. And I drove longer still before I went back for him. And you know what he said?_

_He said he knew I’d come back. Because I’d been carrying part of his soul with me, and he could feel me wherever I went. So he’d felt the exact moment I’d made a U-turn and started steaming down back to him. And he’d waited. Goddammit, he’d waited._

_They say the scariest things out here ain’t the monsters, but what you’ll do for the guy with the blue eyes and the stern jaw. And I say, well, I didn’t know, but now I do. And I say, maybe they’ve got a point._

_Because I’d die for him. And in the Wasteland, sometimes that’s the only thing you have left to give._

_Hell, maybe I’d even tell him my name if he kissed me as he said it.”_

*

**@wastelandsradio: Maybe it’s just me, but the stars seem a little closer tonight. The whispering is louder, at least. You think they’re talking about us?**

*

**wastelands-theories-official.tumblr.com posted:**

_What we know about the narrator:_

  * _They’re probably American, probably East Coast (see analysis here, here and here)_
  * _They’re probably LGBT+ and probably fit at least two of those boxes (see analysis here, here, here, here AND here)_
  * _They’re probably an insomniac (see analysis of Twitter posting times here and here)_
  * _They suffer with mental illness and some kind of body dysmorphia or dysphoria (megathread here)_
  * _They seem to be working on Wastelands Radio alone, or with a VERY small team (see analysis of recording techniques, editing software and progression of skills here, here and here)_



#wastelands radio #the narrator #the wasteland #wastelandsradio #who is nowhere?????? #meta #megathread

**thisisnowhereandimnow.tumblr.com reblogged this and added:**

_Can you freakig NOT? The narrator obviously wants to stay anonymous for a reason and you’re dredging all this shit up and it’s really gross. This is why we can’t have nice things. If they stop broadcasting, I’m totally blaming you._

#creating content is not the same as giving you consent #to freaking doxx someone’s private life #leave nowhere alone 2k20 #THIS IS WHY WE CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS #ps fuck you

*

Bucky dumped their shopping bags absently on the apartment floor the second they stepped inside and locked the door, sliding down it and pulling their knees tight to their chest, arms wrapped around, feeling like a little kid.

The little blond guy had thrown Bucky off kilter like they couldn’t believe. Bucky wasn’t used to people looking at them, and Bucky was okay with that, they weren’t looking for anything and it was nice to be alone (apart from Natasha, but Natasha was busy a lot of the time, and that was okay too).

Being seen felt like when Wastelands Radio first took off and went viral. It was heart in mouth, pulse leaping, blood skipping, bile roiling, and Bucky didn’t know how to deal with it. So they didn’t. They sat surrounded by groceries, face buried in their crossed arms, shaking violently with their eyes tight shut, wishing they were in the Wasteland, where life was life and death was death and love was a luxury, and blue eyed boys didn’t stare at you in lobbies and make your stomach ache.

Time passed. Bucky wasn’t sure how long. But eventually, robotically, they stood and started gathering their groceries and unpacking them, shoving them into cupboards or the fridge, thankful they hadn’t bought anything frozen, as it would have undoubtedly thawed by now.

At the bottom of one of the bags was something smooth, a little dog-earred, a book.

Oh.

The sketchbook the guy had been holding. Bucky must have gathered it up by mistake. It was damp, still, and the corners were crinkling, so Bucky placed it carefully on a towel on the radiator, and cranked the heat up a little. The next time Bucky saw the guy, they’d give it back, and maybe Bucky would be able to talk to him without feeling dizzy.

Bucky felt too antsy to do anything productive, so instead they wandered the internet, checking forums and subreddits, scrolling through Twitter on a disposable account, leaving no mark, a ghost in the virtual desert. They downloaded a few audio samples, saving them for later.

Their eye kept going back to the sketchbook on the radiator.

Was it a fire hazard? It could be a fire hazard. Bucky should move it.

Bucky stood, and grabbed the book, placing it on the desk beside the laptop, intending to go back to their browsing.

Instead, their eyes kept flicking back to the cover of the sketchbook, black, blank, no clue as to what was inside. Curiosity thrummed through Bucky like a livewire.

Bucky slid a finger into a random page, and eased it open. The spine dropped the book open onto a beautifully sketched rendering of a deer in headlights, dated from a couple of days ago.

The deer looked wrong somehow, like maybe it wasn’t a deer at all. That was neat.

Bucky thumbed to the beginning of the book, intending to find the guy’s name, or address, or anything.

Instead, in careful calligraphy, repeated over and over in different styles, flowers growing delicately from the lettering, Bucky found the words ‘Wastelands Radio’ repeated, covering the first three pages of the book.

Bucky slammed the book shut, pushing it away from themself.

The book fell off the desk with an unceremonious clunk.

The deer was their deer. Their not a deer deer. Their monster. One of the monsters that kept them running. One of their Wasteland creations. A two in the morning tweet. A tendril in their brain that twisted until Bucky’d wanted to scream.

And the guy had drawn it and made it not ugly, but ethereal.

The guy listened to Wastelands Radio.

The hairs on Bucky’s arms rose, and cold sweat broke out on their forehead. Every part of their body screamed that this guy was a threat, the thing that could unravel them.

Bucky’s heart beat in triple time.

Bucky took a deep breath and grasped for their phone. They speed dialled Natasha and let it ring three times before hanging up. It was the signal she’d need to come over. Whatever she was doing, she’d come.

Because this was an emergency, and Bucky didn’t handle emergencies well.

*

_“Sometimes I think this desert is going to eat me alive. Like the sand of it is going to creep up my legs and start to swallow me, until I’m nothing but a dried out husk. Another skeleton, a marker along the way. Here lies Nowhere, and I suppose it’s fitting to have a marker for that, isn’t it? Nowhere – now there’s a concept. I like the idea of that. I don’t remember who named me or if I named myself, just that maybe I don’t exist at all, maybe the Wasteland ate me up before I was even born._

_I turned to my friend, and she smiled at me, all red hair and green eyes, she can see right through me, and I love her for that. Sometimes this place separates us, but we find each other again in the darkness, and now, more than ever I’m thankful for that._

_Imagine if we used smiles as currency. Surely I’d never have a penny to my name, but maybe the boy with blue eyes, maybe he_ _’d be the king of this place._

_I’m glitching out. I’m – it’s snowing in the desert and I’m glitching out. My friend tells me to close my eyes and that she’ll wake me up when the monsters are gone._

_What if I’m the monster?_

_Blue, would you still love me if you could see the shape of me?”_

*

“I’m worried about you, Steve,” Sam said, two days later, as Steve paced his apartment, fidgety, restless. Feeling like his skin was too tight.

“I’m fine,” Steve protested, and it felt hollow to his own ears.

“Sure, cool. Except for the part where you’re blatantly not.”

“I’m worried about Nowhere. I lost my sketchbook. And I met someone. And I – I think I know something I shouldn’t.”

“Nowhere is the narrator of that podcast you like, right? Steve, we’ve been through this, even if you could track them down, there’s nothing you could do. You don’t know them. It’s a performance, it’s not real. So there’s that. I’m sorry you lost your sketchbook, but that shouldn’t be triggering you like this. I don’t think you should be meeting anybody in this state, but we’ll get to that. Tell me why you think you know something you shouldn’t.”

Steve paused his restless movement, ran a hand through his hair roughly.

“I fell, in the lobby the other day. Someone helped me. Or tried to. I didn’t let them. Damn, I was so distracted. I’ve never seen anyone like that before. They didn’t even look real, just – I don’t know, I was staring and I tripped. I think they live here, but I’ve never seen them before. And when they spoke, I knew their voice.”

“But you’ve never met them before?” Sam said slowly, as though beginning to understand.

“I know that voice, I’d know that voice anywhere, Sam. The only reason it didn’t click right away was because I was so fucked up from tripping, and this beautiful human helping me out and me just like, stammering my way through the whole thing. But I know who they are. Or – I don’t. But I do. I was listening to Wastelands Radio and I knew. I’d found them. Except, I haven’t. And I don’t know. I listened to last night’s episode and it – something’s wrong, it feels wrong. I’m worried about them. And they could be a floor above me or below me and I wouldn’t even know.”

“Your narrator? You sure?”

Steve nodded. “I told you, I’d know that voice anywhere. And it makes sense, from all the gross theory posts on tumblr, god, I feel so awful for reading them now. They really didn’t want to be found and I invaded their privacy out of this – curiosity or something, I don’t even know. Like they owed me something, as though giving me the Wasteland wasn’t enough, I wanted more. And they sound broken, Sam. And I think they’ve got my sketchbook. And – there’s art. A lot of art. Of the Wasteland. Stuff they’ve mentioned in tweets, bits I liked from the podcast, concept art. It’s all in there. If they looked – they’re going to think I’ve been stalking them. Or that I’m going to out them. And I’m not. I’m not. I just want to know if they’re okay.”

The words came out in a mad rush, and Steve’s breathing grew more and more ragged the more he spoke. Sam gripped his shoulders, shaking him slightly, jolting him to a halt.

“Can you breathe with me for a moment, Steve?” Sam asked, and talked Steve through his breathing, slow inhales and exhales, until Steve felt more inside his own head again, less like he was floating a foot above it.

“I just want to know if they’re okay,” Steve repeated, more to himself than anything.

“I don’t know if you get to ask that question, Steve. You’re not a part of their life.” Sam said carefully.

“I know. I know that rationally. But Wastelands Radio is such a huge part of mine. And they know that. They have to have looked at the sketchbook. I just want to tell them I won’t tell anyone. That I’ll keep their secret.”

“So knock on doors, knock on every door until you find them. Ask for your sketchbook back. Don’t make it weirder than you have to. You had commission work in there you need to finish. It’s an honest excuse. Hell, I’ll do it for you.”

Steve shook his head.

“It should be me. But I can’t. I can’t just knock. It’d be like an invasion. Invading their space. I can’t do that.”

“You gotta do something, man. I don’t like this one bit.”

“What if I made them something?” Steve wondered aloud, the words forming as he thought them. “What if I gave them back something after all they’ve given me?”

“Like what?” Sam asked, cocking an eyebrow, intrigued.

“A promise. I think. A friend in the desert. Provisions for a long drive.”

“You’re not really making a lot of sense right now, Steve.”

“It’ll make sense to them, Sam, I promise.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Me too.”

*

**@blueradio: @WastelandsRadio, this is Blue, I’m trying to get a signal but I can’t find the right star to bounce it off. Tell me if I’m getting warm, I have promises to keep, and monsters to outrun before I sleep.**

*

_“The problem, I think, with the Wasteland, is that it’s so utterly flat. I’ve been searching for something to climb, some way to get higher, so maybe I’ll feel closer to the heavens, maybe the sun will warm me a little more if I extend a greeting. There’s blue in the sky and yellow too. I’m scared of burning up though, so maybe I haven’t been looking as hard as I should have been. If you can find a high point, I’ll meet you there. It could be beautiful, I think, like the air is fresher up there. Maybe I’d forget how to breathe, but that’s okay. I’m sitting in the stars, and I can hear you. [distorted audio] I’m sitting – I’m sitting – I’m sitting in the stars [distorted audio] the highest point [distorted audio] [audio clip from Mr Blue Sky, played backwards] Are you out there? I’m Nowhere. I’m Nowhere. [distorted audio] I’m – “_

*

Bucky spiralled, and then Bucky stopped spiralling, and maybe that doesn’t make sense to anyone but them, but after they’d let Natasha hold them, after they’d let Natasha braid their hair and tell them pretty lies about everything being okay, Bucky opened the sketchbook again, and meticulously matched the drawings inside it to the tweets they’d sent, and then they’d started writing scripts, chaotic, leaving the story behind entirely, turning it on its head as the narrator loses themself and finds themself and then loses themself some more.

Not all of the sketchbook had been Wastelands Radio related, but a lot of it had been. And it was good. Beautiful. Bucky’s monsters looked less scary in the light of day, in the grey hues of the soft pencil drawings. They didn’t look like that when they crawled through Bucky’s brain, but for a few minutes, it was nice to pretend.

There were desert landscapes and beaten up vintage cars and more calligraphy pieces and then there were the pieces that didn’t belong to the Wasteland at all, pieces from real life, snapshots of people talking, laughing, dancing, obviously captured by the artist in public, and now immortalised, and wasn’t that the most amazing gift you could give someone? To immortalise them, as they smiled?

Bucky didn’t know how to return the sketchbook, didn’t know what floor to look on, and to be honest, didn’t have the courage to look. They were still shaken up and the fear of being outed, of someone knowing Bucky was Nowhere, that was terrifying.

Bucky didn’t want to lose the anonymity of the Wasteland.

It was safe when you could give the monsters voices and descriptions. When you knew you could outrun them because you had gas in the engine and hope in your heart.

Real life –

Less so.

So losing that, losing all of that? Bucky couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Maybe didn’t have to?

_So a boy with blue eyes tweets at you and you’re charmed. The boy with blue eyes doesn’t threaten to out you, doesn’t threaten you at all. Is just trying to communicate using your language. The language of the Wasteland. The story you’ve been weaving for years. And you begin to wonder._

Maybe it’s time for the story to expand.

And Natasha laughed when Bucky told her. Not a cruel laugh, but closer to incredulous.

“You’ve found the only other person in Brooklyn as weird as you.”

Maybe so.

If Blue understood the monsters, and Bucky had a feeling that he did, then maybe Blue could understand Bucky, and the baggage Bucky carried wherever they went. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to breathe so much if –

Every resident of the building had a key to the roof. Something about evacuation, in case the stairs were blocked.

Blue would know that. Blue would look for the highest point. Blue would look for Bucky.

Blue would look at Bucky.

And Bucky would let themself be seen.

Fuck.

*

**@blueradio: @WastelandsRadio – you’re breaking up on me, but that’s okay because I think I understand. I found a place where the moon takes up the entire sky. I’ll meet you there when it’s at its fullest. Maybe the monsters look different bathed in light, what do you think?**

*

**bluewastelands.tumblr.com posted:**

_Something’s going on with Wastelands Radio. I swear. It’s going to be something big. We’ve had more episodes this week than we’ve had in the last three months, and we’ve been decrypting the audio files as quickly as we can._

_There’s a lot of garbage to sift through, but Nowhere’s looking for someone called Blue. This isn’t a character we’ve heard of before._

_Now, I know, there are a lot of characters. Pass around these tinfoil hats, please, and settle in for my slideshow._

_I think Blue is a real person, okay? And I think Nowhere is really trying to find them. And guess what? Someone called @blueradio is trying to communicate with Nowhere on Twitter as well. The dates of the tweets and the new episodes match up too perfectly. Either Wastelands is going full ARG or Nowhere is breaking the fourth wall._

_I don’t know what this means. For the fandom. For the podcast. For any of us. I want to delve deeper, but at the same time, this feels like something we shouldn’t be touching._

_The last few episodes have been analysed by smarter people than me, but the consensus is that Nowhere’s going through something. Either in character, or for real._

_I know I’m not a BNF or anything, so I can’t command anyone to do anything, but maybe we should stop, for a bit, and just see how this plays out._

_Nowhere has given us so much over the years. I think it’s time we repay them by giving them some privacy. No doxxing, no personal information, if we find Blue we don’t say a fucking word, you get me? If Blue is a real person we leave them the hell alone._

_The Wasteland is a safe space for me. And I know I’m not the only one who thinks that. And I think, maybe, it was designed that way._

_And the first person it was safe for was for Nowhere._

_So let’s let them be safe for a little while. Let’s just enjoy the ride._

_Whilst there’s gas in our engines and water in our canteens, let’s search for the highest point and just enjoy the drive._

*

The night of the full moon, Steve made his way to the roof, key in hand, and found the door already unlocked. He pushed it open and stepped out into the light blue night, and there stood Nowhere, the narrator, someone he didn’t know but somehow did.

Nowhere looked at him, grey eyes so light against the darkness, wide, afraid, mouth slightly parted, as though there should be words but they weren’t there, not yet.

Steve pulled the door shut, stepped closer, and tried to ignore the thudding of blood in his ears, or the way his legs wanted to fold beneath him.

“This is weird,” he said and Nowhere nodded. “How did you know I knew?”

Nowhere shook their head, shifted slightly. “You recognised my voice. You’d never met me, and you recognised my voice. I saw it in your eyes. You didn’t place me, but I knew it was only a matter of time.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Steve said, a promise. “I know you’re scared that I will, but I won’t. Look, this – this whole thing. I don’t even know your real name. I’m Steve. You’ve really helped me out over the years. I like your Wasteland. I even like your monsters.”

“I know you won’t. Because you would have by now. It wouldn’t have been that hard, you could have found me. Bucky. My name. It’s Bucky. It’s dumb, I know, I was pretty young when I picked it and now – I don’t know, I like that it’s my name. It’s like the Wasteland, you know? It’s mine. And the monsters, they’re mine too.”

“It’s really nice to meet you, Bucky,” Steve said, and wanted to reach out, to shake Bucky’s hand, or brush their shoulder, something, anything. Steve ached to touch Bucky, Bucky who looked so barely there in the moonlight, all dark hair and sharp cheekbones, dressed formlessly yet somehow not ugly, never ugly.

“I’m not good, with people. I know, it doesn’t make sense. With the podcast, and everything. I – words. I should be better. But,” Bucky shrugged, “doesn’t work that way.”

“It’s okay,” Steve said, because it was. “I don’t expect anything from you. I don’t even know what I would expect to expect from you, does that make sense? I just – I’ve been worried about you for a long time, Bucky.”

Bucky’s face creased into a frown, and Steve wondered if he’d said the wrong thing. Bucky chewed their bottom lip for a moment, and Steve wondered if they were figuring out how to reply.

“Why did you worry about me,” Bucky said, and it was a statement, not a question, spoken with something akin to hostility.

Steve paused, before pulling up his sleeve. The scar was silver in the darkness, too long, too deep, too real. Bucky saw it and balked.

“I figured we had shared life experience,” Steve said quietly, and rolled his sleeve down again. “So yeah, I worried.”

“No,” Bucky said. They shook their head. “No, no, no, no.” They backed away from Steve, and Steve knew he’d fucked up, but he’d never been subtle, never been accused of being subtle at all.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Bucky shook their head.

“You don’t get to do that,” Bucky said, words getting louder as they spoke. “You don’t know me. You don’t. The podcast. It’s a podcast. It’s a fucking. The Wasteland. The monsters. You don’t get to fucking – it’s supposed to be safe!”

Bucky knelt down, breathing hard. In a quieter voice, they said, “it’s where I go to be safe.”

“It’s still safe,” Steve said carefully. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. Shouldn’t have assumed. That was really wrong.”

“No shit,” Bucky croaked out. “You can’t just – do that. Expect people to let you see them like that. Maybe – maybe we do have shared life experiences. Fuck. Yeah. Okay. We do. Do I radiate fucked up or is that from the podcast? Or from those nasty little tumblrs that analyse my every word and try to find out where I live?”

“No – it’s not, Bucky, it’s not – ”

“This was a mistake,” Bucky said harshly and stood, pushing past Steve to the door. They paused before opening it. “Tell everyone. I don’t care. I’ll delete it. I’ll delete your precious Wasteland.”

“Bucky – ” Steve tried, but the door slammed shut, leaving him alone. He stared at the moon, wordless. The moon stared back like it was judging him.

“I just know about the monsters,” Steve said to the moon. “I just know about the monsters.”

*

_“[distorted audio] [distorted audio] [You Are My Sunshine played backwards] [distorted audio] Maybe I’ve been driving for too long. This car has ramped up the miles, and this body has too. We’re not what we once were, the pair of us. I told my friend I was thinking of leaving the Wasteland, and she asked me where I’d go. And I realised I’d trapped myself here. This endless road, and these endless monsters. She called me stupid. Said I spoke before I thought sometimes. Where would I go? I’m Nowhere, after all._

_[distorted audio] I went back to the moon, but you were gone by then. I couldn’t feel your soul anywhere in this place, I searched for miles. Remember being a little kid and how things were easier? Pain didn’t even seem to hurt as much as it does now. Remember that? Before the Wasteland, before the monsters? Remember [distorted audio]? I’m trying to remember how it felt not to be afraid. I’m trying to remember how it felt not to hate myself. I want to tear my skin off some days, you know? I know that’s what the monsters would do to me, maybe I should let them._

_[distorted audio] Bluebird, blue sky, blue eyes. I don’t know how you found me in all this wilderness. Did I scare you away? If I cut a hole in my chest would you see through me?_

_I’m not sorry. You were wrong to do what you did. But wrong isn’t malicious._

_The monsters, they know malice. And I know malice because that’s what they taught me._

_If you kissed me, I’d kiss you back ‘til our lips bled. [distorted audio] That’s fucked up.”_

__

*

**@blueradio: @WastelandsRadio I visit the moon every night looking for you. I haven’t seen you in the stars, but it’s hard when you don’t know where to point the telescope. If you see me parked up, knock on my door. I’ll give you a lift, wherever you want to go. I’ll drive slow, around the bumps in the road. Straight on ‘til morning.**

*

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Steve said, and Bucky turned to watch him pull the door too, before stepping tentatively towards him.

“You don’t know me, Steve,” Bucky reminded him, stubbing out the cigarette.

“Yeah, I realise that now. But I’d like to.”

“I’m really fucked up.”

“Show me someone who isn’t. The planet’s burning. The world is somehow crueller than I thought it could be. Our leaders seek out wars to gain popularity. Everybody’s fucked up.”

Bucky shook their head. “It’s different for me.”

“I don’t think it is. We all have our monsters.”

“Mine are real, not just in the Wasteland. In the middle of the night. They’re in my brain. Sometimes I hate myself just for existing.”

“You can’t scare me away, Buck.”

“I’m not trying to. I just want you to see.”

“Well, I get it. And I stand by what I said. We all have our monsters. So yours are bigger, or louder. Mine get pretty big and loud too. I’m still here. You’re still here too.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“I’m not saying it is.”

“What do you want from me, Steve?” Bucky asked, and it sounded broken.

“Time.”

“Time?”

“Give me time to get to know you. And for you to get to know me. I want to know you outside of the Wasteland.”

“I don’t think I exist outside of the Wasteland.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“This doesn’t count.”

“Why not?” Steve asked.

“It’s a liminal space. Liminal spaces don’t count.”

“So maybe we only ever meet at crossroads and at truck stops and on rooftops. Maybe that’s all we get. But I’m betting we could know each other outside of that.”

“Why? Why would you want to?”

“Because you created something beautiful that I fell in love with. And I know you couldn’t do that without putting some of your soul into it. So maybe I fell in love with part of your soul too.”

“That’s not much.”

“I know.”

“Steve, you terrify me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, it’s not your fault. Most things do. But you – it’s not in a bad way. Just. The Wasteland. The road never runs out. I never thought about the end of the road. What’s at the end of all that road?”

“The Wasteland is a liminal space,” Steve said.

“Yeah.”

“It doesn’t have to end.”

“It can’t stay the same. If I let you in, it won’t ever be the same.”

“I’m already a part of the story.”

“I know.”

“So it’s too late.”

“Yeah.”

“Has the road run out?”

“Not yet.”

“So it might be okay.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe we could walk it for a bit. Just to see.”

“Maybe talk, while we walked.”

“That sounds good.”

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

Steve felt fingers intertwining with his, and looked down in surprise.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Bucky said. “I’m just being honest. I don’t want to let you down later.”

Steve squeezed Bucky’s hand gently.

“We’re just walking and talking.”

“Can we sit, for a while?”

“We can sit.”

Beneath the half gone moon, they sat. And slowly, like honey, the night found itself scattered with words, like tiny stars taking their first breaths.

*

_“Blue tells me it’s time to settle down, to build something out here, to make something permanent. I don’t know. I’ve been driving a long time, I’ve seen a lot of desert. The road calls to me, and I worry if I stay still for too long the monsters will creep and churn around me. Blue tells me he’ll keep them away, and he’s one hell of a shot, I’ll give him that._

_I’m not sure though._

_The first time he kissed me I thought he was going to punch me. We were both so mad at each other, I’d been trying to get him to leave, to push him back onto the road. He wouldn’t let me, and it was killing me. He knows all my tricks, all my tells. I had him backed against the wall, and I’m not proud of this, I thought I could scare him into leaving._

_And then he kissed me._

_Fucking supernovas exploded and all I could see was white._

_My ears rang for days._

_He didn’t leave._

_I stopped trying to scare him. Maybe one day I’ll stop trying to make him leave. I don’t want him to leave, but my monsters, they don’t like that. He keeps them away, like I told you, and they want me all to themselves._

_I thought maybe Red would scare him away, but they got on well. Too well. Now they gang up on me, but I know they’re on my team at the end of the day. I guess that’s what counts, out here. Who’s got your back._

_This place, it’s home. And home doesn’t mean walls and doors and windows. It means a place where you feel safe. And I built it for that and it’s served me well. So I’ll keep driving a while longer, but maybe Blue can take the passenger seat if he’s got a few good mix tapes to play._

_I told him my name, you know?_

_One day, he’ll know everything. But my name? That was the most important thing I had to give. I made it myself._

_If you see me on the road, well, know that the boy beside me, he’s looking after me._

_This place? It’ll eat you alive if you let it. Or it’ll keep you safe, if you know where to hide. Gotta let yourself trust a little, though, even though it’s scary. Let other people in. Let them see you. Let them see your monsters._

_This has been Wastelands Radio, and I’m your host, Nowhere, signing off.”_

__

*

**@WastelandsRadio: I told you about the monster inside of me and you told me it was beautiful. And I told you that you were stupid to think so. But maybe you’re my kind of stupid.**

*

**@blueradio: @WastelandsRadio, I’ll be your kind of stupid for as long as you let me.**

*

“Do you think it’ll ever end?” Steve asked, swamped in one of Bucky’s hoodies, looking almost breakably small. “Wastelands Radio, I mean?”

Bucky sat down on the bed beside him, and took a quick glance at the sketchbook in Steve’s hands. Another drawing of Bucky, drawn from memory this time, though Bucky had reluctantly sat for him a couple of times now. It was from last night, after Steve had wrung out everything Bucky had and left them breathless in the sheets, sex flushed and drowsy.

“You can’t draw that,” Bucky said, and plucked the pencil from Steve’s fingers.

“Hey!” Steve protested, but was silenced by Bucky’s lips on his. When they pulled apart, Steve tried to glare. “You can’t win every argument that way.”

Bucky shrugged.

“Do you really mind when I draw you like this?” Steve asked.

“Sometimes. On the bad days. On the good days – I think. I mean, you make me look – beautiful. And I can almost believe it.”

“Then I’ll keep drawing them. Until you believe it.”

“I don’t know if it’ll end. It feels like it has to.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

“Maybe I want it to, then. I’ve been thinking about it. I want the Wasteland to have an ending. I don’t know what it’ll be, but I know it needs one.”

“But what about everyone who listens to it?” Steve asked.

“Endings aren’t always inherently bad. Just different. And I can always start a new story,” Bucky added with a slight smile they couldn’t hide.

“You’ve been plotting!” Steve exclaimed excitedly.

“It’s only early days.”

“I can’t believe this. You’ve got something new up your sleeve and you didn’t tell me.”

“Are you upset?”

“Upset? No, Buck, I’m fucking delighted. I’m so proud of you.”

“It won’t be the Wasteland. It won’t be the same.”

“I’ll be proud of you whatever you do.”

“It’s early days. It might not be anything yet.”

“Okay, no pressure. But, let me hear it first?” Steve asked.

“It might not be something you hear…” Bucky trailed off.

“You’re writing?”

“Trying. It’s hard. Harder than Wastelands Radio. Feels different.”

“Take your time, baby.”

“I will. I just didn’t want to tell you until I knew I had something.”

“And do you?”

“I think so. Maybe. Yeah. I think so.”

“I’m. So. Proud. Of. You,” Steve said, punctuating every word with a kiss.

“Yeah?” Bucky asked.

“Every goddamn day. Bucky, can’t you see how far you’ve come?”

So maybe the monsters didn’t wake Bucky every night now, and maybe Bucky was attending therapy, and maybe Bucky felt comfortable enough to be naked in front of Steve, and to sleep with him. Maybe Bucky was writing an actual fucking book. Maybe Bucky had come a lot further than they’d realised.

So maybe Bucky didn’t want to retreat to the Wasteland so much anymore.

The world was brighter now. Not just because of Steve, but maybe Steve had been a catalyst, something that allowed Bucky to push a little harder, knowing there’d be someone to catch them.

“How are you real?” Steve asked in wonder, pushing back one of the tiny braids in Bucky’s hair.

“I don’t know how to answer that,” Bucky replied.

“I’m so glad I found you,” Steve said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Which time?”

“Every time. Every single goddamn time. It’s like fate wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“When you put it like that, it does sound like a conspiracy,” Bucky agreed, smiling.

“Look at you,” Steve smiled back. “Look at you.”

“Look at you,” Bucky replied. Steve scoffed.

“I mean it,” Bucky insisted.

“Fine, I guess.”

“I love you,” Bucky said. It wasn’t the first time they’d said it, but it still felt sacred every damn time.

“I love you too,” Steve replied, and Bucky knew he meant it. Knew it the way they knew their own name. Like it was tattooed on their bones.

“Do you have anywhere to be today?” Steve asked. Bucky shook their head.

“Lay with me a while then?” Steve asked.

They did this a lot, not really fooling around, or having sex, just trading lazy kisses and talking, letting out into the universe the good and the bad that their brains had built up. It kept them both sane.

Steve rolled onto his side, and Bucky lay down to face him, close enough to breathe the same air.

Steve ran a finger down Bucky’s cheek, tracing the bone beneath it.

“Beautiful,” he said.

“Yours,” Bucky replied.

*

**@WastelandsRadio: It’s been a four year drive, but I think it’s finally time to put down some roots and let myself grow. To everyone who’s followed my travels, thanks for helping me find my way. And to Blue, I don’t have the words. But I’ll keep searching for them until I do.**

*

**SEARCH ERROR: Podcast ‘Wastelands Radio’ cannot be found. Would you like to try again?**

*

**bluewastelands.tumblr.com posted:**

_Three years ago, I started this blog because of a podcast. I didn’t realise when I listened to the first episode that it’d change my life. And that I’d hear someone else’s life changing too. Nowhere, if you’re out there, I hope you and Blue are really happy together. There’re a lot of Wastelanders rooting for you two._

_The Wasteland isn’t gone, not really. The same way the monsters aren’t really gone. They both exist inside of us, and they always will. What we shared as a community can never be lost, or replaced._

_That’s the power of fandom. That’s the power of art._

_Nowhere created something extraordinary._

_We owe it to them to try to do the same with our own lives._

_I’m going to go ask my girlfriend if she’ll marry me._

_We met on that dusty road. And we’re still driving together._

_Life is impossibly strange. I’m grateful to share this small part of it with you._

*

**@WastelandsRadio: I’m proud to announce that my debut novel, Cosmonaut, will be published in July this year. Thank you for all the support. I couldn’t have done it without you, Wastelanders. Love, Bucky.**

*

**@WastelandsRadio has changed their username to @BuckyBarnes.**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Art is by the amazing, fantastic and far too overly talented @luckycl0ve (Twitter) / jaybrogers.tumblr.com  
> The podfic is by flowerparrish (AO3), to whom I apologise and [distorted audio]  
> Beta'd by our token cis person, jesuisgrace (AO3) who has been the loudest cheerleader
> 
> Comments are hugely appreciated - no comment is too short or too silly. I know we'd all love to hear what you think. :)
> 
> The title is taken from the Bruce Springsteen song of the same name, I'd recommend a listen (once you've finished the podfic!)
> 
> You can find me at jbbarnes.tumblr.com or @imwiththebard on Twitter.
> 
> THANK YOU.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] Radio Nowhere](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27008179) by [Flowerparrish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/pseuds/Flowerparrish)




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